How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests.
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