These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. They had not to tarry long. Her mother was a goddess to her all through her youth, the mysterious ruler of all things beautiful and wonderful and lunar, her eyes that glinted spectral blue, as if she had the knowledge and the magic to raise the very dead. In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice.
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