Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. . ‘Now I see why you’re marrying this woman, Hilary. .
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