In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee.
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