"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. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. She leaned back as he climbed on top of her and kissed her mouth again. Pig and brute! Yet calling him hard names would not help her.
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