At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She directed the orchestra to tune again. At least one of them was caught and put away. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. Suddenly he burst into wild laughter; but equally as suddenly something strangled the sound in his throat. “Something.
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