"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. Look at these walls. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. A father is in debt, we'll say. “Oh, please. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. "She wouldn't let me go.
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