" There fell upon the three the silence of perfect understanding; and in this silence each saw a vision. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. There is a place—This isn’t the place. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ‘You see,’ he pursued blandly, ‘I lead a life of the most intolerable boredom.
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