There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The perception of him flooded her being. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. ‘Do you think I do not know? What am I doing here, do you think?’ ‘That’s just exactly what I’ve been asking myself,’ he returned. " "Mother!" cried Jack, in a broken voice.
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