Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She screamed at Sebastian. You can trust me, Anna. You are doing your best to break our friendship. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Too many. F. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm.
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