Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow.
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