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Ann S. (Ann Sophia) Stephens
Ann Sophia Stephens (1810-1886) was an American novelist and magazine editor known for her contributions to popular literature in the 19th century. She authored over twenty-five novels, including "Malaeska, the Indian Wife of the White Hunter," which became the first dime novel published in the United States. Stephens also played a significant role in editing several influential magazines, such as "Ladies’ Companion" and "Graham’s Magazine", shaping early American literary culture.
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CHAPTER I. THE FATHER'S RETURN. She kneels beside the pauper bed, As seraphs bow while they adore! Advance with still and reverent tread, For angels have gone in before! "I wonder, oh, I wonder if he will come?" The voice which uttered these words was so anxious, so pathetic with deep feeling, that you would have loved the poor child, whose heart gave them forth, plain...
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During fourteen years Hepworth Closs had been a wanderer over the earth. When he was carried out from the court-room after Mrs. Yates' confession of a crime which he had shrinkingly believed committed by another, he had fainted from the suddenness with which a terrible load had been lifted from his soul. In that old woman's guilt he had no share. It swept the blackness from the marriage he...
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A PROPOSAL. She was eighteen years old and would graduate in a few weeks, yet Elsie looked like a child, lying there in that little white bed, with her golden curls scattered on the pillow and the soft whiteness of her neck and hands shaded by the delicate Valenciennes with which her night robe was profusely decorated. A quantity of hot house flowers lay scattered on the counterpane, where the girl had...
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I HAVE made up my mind. Having put my hand to the plough, it isn't in me to back out of a duty when duty and one's own wishes sail amicably in the same canoe. I am going to give myself up to the good of mankind and the dissemination of great moral ideas. Selected by the Society of Infinite Progress as its travelling missionary, with power to spread the most transcendental of New England ideas...
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CHAPTER I. It was autumn, one of those balmy Indian summer days which, if the eyes were closed, would remind you of Andalusia when the orange trees put forth their blossoms with the matured fruit still clinging to their boughs, burying its golden ripeness among cool, green leaves, and buds of fragrant snow. Still, save in the delicious atmosphere that autumnal sunset would not have reminded you of any...
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CHAPTER I. THE MASSACRE. A low coast, burdened in every foot of its soil with the luxuriant growth of a tropical climate; a large town, straggling and flat, swarming like a hive of bees with turbulent life. Lights flickering wildly from the windows and dancing with a fantastic and red glare up and down the streets. A dull, hollow sound rolling constantly out upon the stillness of the waters, broken now...
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