"There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow. This is not what I want. ’ It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. So far it had been plain sailing, and it had seemed fairly evident to go on: “I find it very difficult to answer your letter. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. It shall be your wedding ring. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. But you don’t particularly want to do the job that sets you free—for its own sake.
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