Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. We are the species, and maternity is our game; that’s all right, but nobody wants that admitted for fear we should all catch fire, and set about fulfilling the purpose of our beings without waiting for further explanations. ’ ‘Nonsense. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. "The nurses," she answered.
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