But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. CHAPTER I. Too late. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. I saw it this morning in the Daily Journal—an advertisement, offering a reward—" "A reward!" echoed Jack.
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