The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. "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. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. Will you lend me the money for my ticket to London?” “With all the pleasure in the world,” he answered heartily.
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