And Mother trusted him. She put her head out of the window. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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