Leastways, not on your own. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Then she sang. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. and Mrs. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over.
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