" "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames. "You must take it to Sir Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic.
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