A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. Her unnatural calm was giving way. "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. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it. ” He fumed.
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