There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. But never mind that. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. Hugging him in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was strangely soothing to her. ” “It’s better to know life than be life.
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