Jack was almost afraid of speaking; but at length he summoned courage to call out "Mother!" "Who's there?" asked a faint voice from the bed. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. "Put it under my pillow," he said. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo.
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