Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. It wouldn't do to say that she was from the hospital. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her.
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