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E. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. They hunted up shady nooks and went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office, ready for barter. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. "What is your name?" "Ruth. .
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