Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "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. "He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. " "And partly what else?" "I shall never tell anybody that. ‘More important is that you help me instantly, as even your capitaine would command.
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