Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. It's a pity you wouldn't give me the prescription instead of the medicine, so I could have it filled nearer home. ” “That is provokingly indefinite,” he answered, a little ruefully. Hill was seated.
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