There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. 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 lantern was on the ground inside, ready. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home.
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