I'm doin' her work every day, an' her dressin' an' pore
little Sunday fixin's is all still a-hangin' on the wall. She wus the
only gal--"
Washburn came back with the change. The old woman's thin hands
quivered as she took the coin and slowly counted the pieces into her
pocket-book, Washburn suspected from the expression of Westerfelt's
face that the conversation was of a private nature, so he went out to
the hack to help Budd unharness the horses.
"No," went on the old woman, sternly, "you've brought about a pile o'
misery in yore life, John Westerfelt, an' you hain't a-gwine to throw
it off like a ol' coat, an' dance an' make merry. You may try that
game; but yore day is over; you already bear the mark of it in yore
face an' sunk cheeks. You've got another gal on yore string by this
time, too."
"You are mistaken, Mrs. Dawson."
"How about the one at the hotel that nussed you through yore sick
spell?"
"There is nothing between us." He hesitated, then added: "Nothing at
all, nor there never will be."
"_You_ say thar hain't, but that don't prove it.
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