“I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. \"How's it going, Lucy?\" She turned. "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. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. So he liked to go by a different train.
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