He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street.
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