Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. ‘All this gadding about. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. If there were any pearls, none came into the light.
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