“What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured. "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. Thinks they’re the same as soldiers. His face fell. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. F. She must weigh her situation.
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