Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. ‘Now then, my lad, you’re under arrest you are. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. Every day in the year you will witness such scenes. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. "But I happen to be an honest man myself.
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