"I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. D.
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