"I've spoken. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. "He is gone!" cried Mrs. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. “I don’t see that his being a good sort matters.
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