“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. The Jacobite daws want a scarecrow. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy.
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