Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. He took a handful of the gravelly mud, with which the platform was covered, and threw the small pebbles, one by one, towards the gleam. Anna looked at her curiously, and with sinking heart. 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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