She walked through the office to the door, aimlessly. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. There was only one prisoner in the ward. Lucy pinned her hair off her neck and hoped it would make her to look decidedly older. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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