Tell me. 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 Ah Cum offering him an opportunity to warn Spurlock? But should he warn the boy? Why not let him imagine himself secure? The thunderbolt would be launched soon enough. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. And no ill-chances.
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