"Why, it's like a laundry," exclaimed Patricia in disappointment as she looked about her. The low-ceiled whitewashed apartment into which they had descended from the winding iron stair was sepulchrally bare and empty in the flicker of its noisy gas jets, the rusty gas stoves at its farther end emphasizing its general air of desolation.,
"He is all right for the time being. I have detailed a housemaid as nurse, and she knows what to do. I'll come back again in the morning and see if he has recovered his senses.",
"Not Dido. Oh!" cried Isabella, in a tone of anguish, "it was my mother.".
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