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" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us.
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