Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. The first stroke appeared to arouse all the vindictive passions of Jonathan. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand.
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