Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement.
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