"Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. "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. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself. In this way, they reached Holborn Bridge. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. But now it was all over, and Alice was getting on well.
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