The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. Please yourself. Nothing is settled upon.
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