"Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. ‘Stand where you are, or I shoot!’ Like lightning, thoughts zipped through her mind. Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. Then for a time she forgot the Fadden affair altogether. Gosse were you born, and Gosse will you remain to your death. She went out into the hall, where she met the Jedsons in their kimonos. Dinner was served at 5:30. You knew me in Paris. CHAPTER XXVIII.
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