"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. " "You did right," returned Trenchard. It always comes out sooner or later. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. “We are Mr. Why should I peep at it through smoked glass to see things that don’t affect me?” He smiled his delight at his companion.
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