Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. "To-morrow it will be mine.
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