There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death. “Never. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. I am not angry with you, but with this—this—’ ‘Idiot? Imbecile?’ offered Gerald in a helpful tone.
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