Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. A faint, delightfully humorous smile parted her lips. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.
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