There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “Please, Michelle, let’s not fight. It is different. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. Jack instantly started to his feet, and the man, alarmed at his appearance, ran off to a neighbouring house. I tried to get across the terrace and onto the bridge to introduce myself, but the crowds did not part and I lost you.
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