There must be ways of getting rid of him. “Well?” he asked her tersely. When she got back to her questions again in the monotonous high-road that led up the hill, she found the image of Mr. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. She is setting out for Hartford, Connecticut. I was engaged to dine with your sister and her husband, and I sent a wire. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. 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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