Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. ‘You are a born rebel, ma’am, and I can see now where she gets it from. Tell me about your island. "Flying fish.
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