Wood in a sharp tone. Too late. John finally wrested her away from the company of his parents, insisting that he wanted to take a walk in the park before it was completely dark. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up.
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