"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. ‘Certainly those are names of the most undistinguished, and I would scorn to have them.
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