Every facility in him seemed to be still absorbed in watching Mercy's face.

She was compelled to address herself to Horace once more.
"What sort of asylum ?" she asked.

"You don't surely mean a madhouse ?" "I do," he rejoined.

"The workhouse first, perhaps--and then the madhouse.

What is there to surprise you in that?
You yourself told her to her face she was mad.