Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. Laying these carefully aside, he restored the drawer to its place. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “It is from his brother in Paris. “In a sense—yes. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view.
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