She recoiled. "Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or Blueskin, I think he's called. He remembered it suddenly. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Her faculties seemed for a moment numbed. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “Very likely,” he answered.
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