There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. How she had fought her eagerness in the beginning, lest it reveal her ignorance of the marvels of mankind! The terror and ecstasy of that night in Singapore— the first city she had ever seen! There was still the impression that something akin to a miracle had piloted her successfully from one ordeal to another. As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. 58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Her heart failed her and her resolution became water. This lapse was possibly due to her apparent determination to make full protest of Hilary’s conduct. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. I don’t care! I’m glad I did.
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