"My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. " In less time than Hobson had mentioned, the carriage was announced. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. She nodded. She had intended to be quietly dignified, but he was in a smouldering rage from the beginning, and began by assuming, which alone was more than flesh and blood could stand, that the insurrection was over and that she was coming home submissively. " "I care not why you did it," said Jack, sternly. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years.
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