"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. . Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. The terror faded from her eyes.
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