Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Certainly. She could manage the major. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. ’ The things she said and did from you—seem impossible. Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the side of the bed.
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