His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. "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. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve.
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