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"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. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. ’ ‘Married?’ ‘I did mention Madame Valade, did I not?’ At that, a growl of startling ferocity escaped her lips. I know what I am talking about. .
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