Then for a time she sat very still. All right! I’m off. After all, life had still its pulsations. A sinister thought edged in. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. "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. Still, here we are in this dingy, foggy city.
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