“I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. "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. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. She wanted to think. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was.
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