"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. She could not help devouring him a little with her eyes across the Burger King booth, handsome shoulders visibly solid underneath his ridiculous polo shirt, his eyes all sweetness and light. But they did what they could for her. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. I cannot explain beyond that. Then her eyes flashed. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. " CHAPTER XVIII.
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