Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “It is Rhea’s infant. “Mr. Every one turned to her in astonishment. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key.
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