"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. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive.
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