"You can generally understand that language. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. "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 slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. She had agonized over it for weeks.
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