A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. I have it about me. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. I must apologize for my young puppy of a clerk. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
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