Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. My birth certificate was destroyed when the county building it was housed in burned down. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches.
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