She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. In a sense I don’t care. . He took about five minutes.
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