Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. ” The conversation hung for a moment. ” She pulled a small blue box out of the pocket of her hoodie. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. You would find things to laugh at even in Artemus Ward. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.
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