Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "Call me Hoddy. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. "What was it?" He was insistent.
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