“Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. "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. " "Where—where?" cried Thames. "I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove. But I have powerful friends. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. ” “I know. " "Anything else, Sir?" "No:—stay! you'd better not bring up any silver forks or spoons. " "Bless you! bless you!" cried Mrs. " Thames tried to answer her, but his voice failed him. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. But woe to those who disregard them! Of course, basically it is all wrong; and sometimes God must laugh at our ideas of rectitude. “Martin, I don’t know what to say.
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