So I dare say I was christened Jack. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. He could lose himself for hours at a time.
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