Wood. "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. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. “I may go to Hatton House later, but you needn’t wait. Wood heard the cry. I’ve muddled all this business. All my plans have succeeded. I know exactly what I am doing. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end.
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