The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. Wood?" "With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. She looked at him gravely and squinted. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them.
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