"What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. "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 Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. I try to execute people with records, bad men, child molesters, criminals, lowlifes. But from the rest—you saved me. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work.
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