She saw it, and checked without thinking. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. You are more in my power than I am in yours. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Wood was dressed with more than ordinary care, and in more than ordinary finery. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said.
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