There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. If I don't, you shall clap me in the Condemned Hold in his stead. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent.
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