"Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. Talked about his years, his position and his constituents, and always sneaked off back to his hotel just when the fun was going to begin. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. " "Heaven have compassion on you, Rowland!" murmured his sister, crossing her hands and looking upwards; "you have none on me.
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