She felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. This is not honourable. She even hit the jackpot in 1952 when she found a photograph in a London issue of Vogue. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes.
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