Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. Saw the villain through the keyhole. But all those empty years!… My heart was hot. “Do you mind very much?” He shook his head. I worshipped her and subdued myself. The chapel was crowded to excess. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes.
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