I put your clothes out an hour ago. "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. Three times she escaped. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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