Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. They drove rapidly through the emptying streets. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. Look at me. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. The immense disillusionment that awaited him! The devastating disillusionment! She had a vague desire to run after him, to state her case to him, to wring some understanding from him of what life was to her.
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