Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “No!” “Don’t try and stop me. ! He’ll come a cropper one of these days, if you ask me. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh.
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