Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. "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 decided to go in and wait. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. After Gwen!” “I sent a telegram.
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