It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. “Stop,” he said. ” “Remember that you are young still, and fond of admiration,” Anna said.
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