She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq.
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