“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. He then barred and double-locked the door, took out the key, (a precautionary measure which, with a grim smile, he said he never omitted,) thrust it into his vest, and motioning the couple to follow him, led the way to the inner room. Mr. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate.
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