Before her stretched blank spaces, dotted with running people coming toward her, and below them railings and a statue. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. Lucy felt herself go very red in the cheeks and lowered her hand rather slowly. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. All that is jolly and as it should be. Suppose our proper place is a shrine.
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