There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ’ ‘Was it?’ Her lips twitched. “Okay. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. If you’ve got anything to say, you must say it to your aunt—” “But look here, daddy!” He flapped the Times at her with an imperious gesture. It never has had. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson.
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