He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. You’re mine. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. In reply to this summons a horn was instantly blown at the corner of the street.
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