There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. She pointed suddenly at the portrait. His heart beat wildly and he was afraid lest the strain be too much; but the girl shook her head and smiled and pointed to the top of the mountain. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. He heard Melusine cry out, but his attention was all for the nick he had made in her neck.
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