Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. After quarter of an hour, she followed. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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