There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. I do not know how I shall get it, but I must, you understand. . As a matter of fact I have been waiting for you. She would never, never go back.
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