He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. “Let me know the truth. "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. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I’m off to England. " "Mrs. "Oh lord! I hope not. I should scarcely have known you. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. ‘Will you stop hedging? I’m hanged if I go on with this ridiculous cat and mouse game.
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