She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. " Sir Rowland made no reply, but angrily quickened his pace. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. 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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