The Hospital St. "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. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. For I still love her mother. “Neither Sydney nor I would think of such a thing. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. To-morrow, when she returned to Hong-Kong, she would purchase a simple but modern dress. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her.
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