Then abruptly Mr. Your life is like a funeral March. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. That is why I ask you. ‘Do not look at me so,’ he snapped. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books.
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