. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. I understand. . My engagement at the ‘Garrick’ terminates Saturday week, and then I am free. This is retribution. Sir John once more looked around him.
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