Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Feel better. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. He smiled inwardly. None at all. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. ‘I have a very good mind to do so, imbecile. . ’ He only laughed.
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