. I don’t quite know why. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “I’ll go. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. The coconut plantation covered the west side.
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