"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. " "Hold your tongue!" cried Mrs. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. He likewise gave directions that in the after part of the day a whole bullock should be roasted on the green and distributed, together with a barrel of the strongest ale. He brightened as she took off her hood.
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