He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. "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. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. ’ ‘So I infer. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight.
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