There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The evenings were dulcet and soft. . Then a surge of rage welled up. He stopped before her suddenly. She touched it, and her gaze lifted. You could, if you were ambitious to round out your education, memorize certain popular foreign phrases. She opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women.
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