Not up here, I think. It is a big house and there are many rooms in which to hide. She led him up the long hall solemnly. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “We played at love-making in Paris. 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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