"Yes. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain. "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. Not at all. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk.
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