Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship.
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