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There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. Brute! Fool! To have come to her on such an errand. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. “If you wish,” he said, “I will go there in the morning and see what can be done for him. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. I am a little afraid. 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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