"Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. "But I dread the effect your departure may have upon your poor mother. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. “Which one?” “The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister. To them all I am nothing. The Old Mint. She even had books by H. I suppose this is what she learns in her infernal London colleges. "You're mistaken, Winny. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide. ‘That is my mother.
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