There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. I'm about to leave this country for ever. .
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