This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. My dear! we’ve had so many moments! I used to go over the times we’d had together, the things we’d said—like a rosary of beads. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
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