She got hysterical. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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