Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. Gerald at once rid himself of his own glass and leapt to her assistance.
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