Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. He embraced her fully. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself.
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