The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 109: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ROYAL LOVER’S VICTIM 87 strangely and painfully commingled with vacancy, upon the countenance of the younger, whose heart was too full to allow her tongue to give utterance to a word. “Oh, why will you not breathe that name once more? ”’ asked the victim of royal treachery, her voice becoming more melting and touchingly plaintive than ever. “ If I could do you a pleasure in so simple and easy a manner, I should not hesitate.” “Nor I, nor I, beloved Octavia,’’ exclaimed Pauline, almost suffocated with the sobs that rent her breast; “‘ only it drives me mad —”’ ‘Mad! ”’ ejaculated the elder sister, catching up the word which Pauline so unwittingly and so unfortunately let fall, ‘““mad!’’ repeated Octavia, again becoming fearfully ex- cited. ‘‘ Oh, all the world are mad save myself. Ha! ha! I laugh merrily, merrily, when I think how absurd and ridiculous every living soul renders himself while endeavour- ing to look wise and sensible. There is an old gentleman with a white head who comes to see me sometimes; and he puts the silliest questions, makes the most preposterous remarks, and surveys me with the most laughable affectation of sympathy and compassion. Then he fancies himself a doctor and feels my pulse; and I humour him, poor old gentleman, as well as I can, because I know that he is mad and cannot be held responsible for his actions. At another time an old woman comes to see me, and she is mad also. But she does not know it, she does not even suspect it; and it is by endeavouring to appear sane that she renders herself ridiculous. Poor old thing! I have more than once laughed in her face, but I have been sorry for it afterward. All sadness, except that which arises from sin, is sacred; and therefore when I behold the melancholy looks of that gentle- man who believes himself a doctor and of this woman who fancies herself a nurse, I ought to be serious. It is wrong of me to laugh, but I cannot always help it. And now, my dear friend, for I do not know your name,” continued Octa- via, approaching close up to Pauline and gazing upon her countenance with an expression of melancholy interest, ~ though still commingled with that vacancy which denoted reason’s aberration, “‘ and now, my dear friend,”’ she said, sinking her voice to a low and mysterious whisper, “ pardon me if I tell you a truth that may not be altogether welcome,