It was a sickening process, and the sucking sound was sure to wake up Ray’s mother. "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. "I did not know … that it was … like that!" She stepped back; but as his hands fell she caught and held them tightly. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. "Practising singing, Aaron," replied Jack.
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