"It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Forgive me. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. We have met before. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify. He was tender with her as he had not been in years.
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