With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "Well, lad, supposing you read what the editor has to say?" was McClintock's suggestion, when the frolic was over. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts.
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