"Don't you know me, mother?" "Ah!" shrieked Mrs. " "Nonsense!" cried Wood; "while there's life there's hope. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. .
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