CHAPTER XX. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. “I may be leaving where I am in a few days, so very likely you will be no better off. 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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