‘Talk to me another time. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. "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 only know that it is right to do what I do.
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