Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket.
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