Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. ‘This is a private house,’ Hilary said severely, ‘and you are trespassing. Was it ruined?’ ‘But yes, it was entirely ruined.
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