Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. It's a mighty quare 'un, though. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. "I must tell you," she was saying.
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