Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “I promise, Lucy. What does she look like?’ ‘Black hair. Is there anything you want?" She laid her hand on his forehead, and found it without fever. He reached out a hand gropingly, sagged, and toppled out of the chair to the floor, where he lay very still. He was a philosopher. I’m so glad you’re not angry. Do so; and I am yours as heretofore.
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