There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. Still—you must learn for yourself. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself.
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