One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. Before he even glanced at the man on the floor he stepped over to her side and took the poker from her. “Does a bear shit in the woods?” He said. I almost died from this flu. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily.
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