” He reeled out of the room. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. "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 won't mind if I empty this gin?" "No. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them. Like a trollop in heat. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. “Quite right,” she said. He drew a little breath of relief. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. I am bound to admit that I greatly enjoy my altered life. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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