He called here on his way back, after he had been to Bedlam to visit poor Mrs. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. I don’t believe in the faults. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window.
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