He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “Slavery! Downtroddenness! When I think of it I feel all over boot marks— men’s boots. ” Courtlaw was alarmed at the man’s pallor. Brown broke the silence. "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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