None presented themselves to save him from that return. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of my information. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. . ‘Though he didn’t mean it. People running, screaming, hiding. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill.
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