"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. He advanced a step towards her. So the world is choked with waste and waiting daughters. He would always be her friend, too. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. She was never announced as ‘Alcide,’ but directly she walked on she simply became ‘Alcide’ to every one. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. " "Deferred!" echoed Sheppard. Mike chortled.
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