A girl—at my age—is grown-up. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. “It sounds too ridiculous. I don’t think they do matter. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. His face was downcast. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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