Sepulchre's. What with these converging roofs that shut out all but a hand's breadth of the sky, sunshine was rare at this point. Nobody can anticipate your next move. "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. Mac's. She had not been sufficiently prompted in relation to the ways of caravansaries; but her mind had been alert and receptive. Would you like to borrow some of my clothes? I think we're about the same size. Can you imagine how dreadful it must be for them? Most of them arrive here almost penniless. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. END OF THE FIRST EPOCH.
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