She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. The shock and distress were genuine. ’ ‘Was. She sighed with relief.
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