Wood. It's a sorry world," he went on. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. "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. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. So I had to buy out his interest, and it pinched me dreadfully to do it. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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