Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. Blueskin, you are a true friend. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand.
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