Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment. . He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. Next moment, she had shut the bookshelf panel upon him.
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