She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. The size and grandeur of the edifice, indeed, drew down the ridicule of several of the wits of the age: by one of whom—the facetious Tom Brown—it was said, "Bedlam is a pleasant place, and abounds with amusements; —the first of which is the building, so stately a fabric for persons wholly insensible of the beauty and use of it: the outside being a perfect mockery of the inside, and admitting of two amusing queries,—Whether the persons that ordered the building of it, or those that inhabit it, were the maddest? and, whether the name and thing be not as disagreeable as harp and harrow. By 12:30 a. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. It would be too mortifying.
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