I bent over him. "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. ‘—and what do I do? Well, we know what I do. She shook them off of one foot. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels.
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