I told him the truth. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. . ’ ‘Pah! Do you think I will run away? Do not be so foolish, and go and fetch him this instant. My death, probably. Always the other things remained. 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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