She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. Besides, he might hear things. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. Even now he was not at all sure that she was not playing with him. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them.
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