She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Anywhere! Moonlight and music—pleasing, you know, but quite unnecessary.
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