Mrs. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. She knew it. Wood fancied he recognised. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations.
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