” The idea struck him as novel. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. ” “You remembered. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle.
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