But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it. Tea in the laboratory was a sort of suffragette reception. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. 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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