’ Fury was in her face. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her. The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. . “None, I thank you,” he answered. ‘Quick, Gérard. "It's a mercy you both escaped!" ejaculated Wood, only just finding his tongue.
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