net/license). Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “Let’s hope your successor is worthy of you. We may be all murdered in this unprotected place, and nobody be the wiser.
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