And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers.
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