I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. "Poor Mrs.
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