Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. ” “Quite. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done. He had something across his knees.
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