"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 see, it is that I am a female, and you all are men. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. The men have never had so much work to do since they banded. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. ” “No,” she moaned, “not that. You don’t understand the fix I am in. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. I trust that she will not misunderstand me.
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