They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. "My mother!—my poor mother!" ejaculated Thames, falling on his knees, and bursting into tears. His eyes flashed as he turned towards her. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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