There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. Wood's anxiety grew so insupportable, that he seized his hat with the intention of sallying forth in search of them, though he did not know whither to bend his steps, when his departure was arrested by a gentle knock at the door. “I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily.
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