Love—admiration for your matchless beauty alone sways me. . 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 were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America.
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