In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. It was a mass of knick-knacks. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. It was obvious that he had waited for her. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool.
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