‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. I have neither father, mother, brother, sister, nor husband—I have only him. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. But woe to those who disregard them! Of course, basically it is all wrong; and sometimes God must laugh at our ideas of rectitude. "Well, who'd have thought of finding it in this unexpected way!" "Don't be too sure till you see it," said the widow. ” There was silence between them. 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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