There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. He had but to give his orders. Parbleu, but she was a fool. Anna felt that her words had become charged with a fuller and more subtle meaning than any which she had intended to impart. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. ‘Shocked you, have I? We weren’t mealy-mouthed in my day, my boy.
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