heads stupidly in his direction, as they knitted their well-shaped
stockings diligently; other dishevelled, drivelling imbeciles, gathered
up in the corners of benches or on the floors, raised their empty eyes
to look carelessly out through masses of tumbled hair at him, and then
with some half articulate chuckle to clasp their hands tightly around
their knees again, and drop their heads into their laps.

From these harmless, foolish victims, Guy passed eagerly on to the more
thrilling presence of the maniacs, but even here, though wild shrieks
and dark threatening looks greeted him on all sides, he could not find a
clue to assist in unravelling his secret plot. There were loud toned
viragos who screached and roared in fearful imprecations and appealed to
unknown people, victims of the demon alcohol--there were the dark,
sullen, silent ones, brooding over their imaginary or real wrongs, and
weeping and moaning piteously--there were the dangerous, careless and
happy victims, who filled the dismal cells with their heart-rending
peals of wild laughter, that fall upon the heart like the loneliest
knell--there were the apparently quiet, religious ones who addressed
their Creator in ceaseless, meaningless prayer, crying for forgiveness
and mercy, but there was no bright, pretty French child, who called for
"Bijou" or her "revenge," and this discouraged Guy very much. Presently
addressing the guide, who escorted him through these apartments of
living death, Guy said:

"Have you no cases of love mania, one younger than these?" waving his
hand, as he spoke, in the direction of the rooms he had just visited.

The middle-aged guide shook her head sadly and said:

"Not at present, Sir, the last one of that sort, died a few months after