With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. “Anna of course would not accept any money from us,” she continued. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. Now you will learn the result. No mercenary consideration influences me. .
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