Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde. "That's usual. I know why. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. "Then I advise you to look sharply after him, Mr. "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. It’s time she knew. “We parted— that night the best of friends. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. My people don’t know what to do.
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