‘Can I not leave you for a day without you getting yourself into trouble?’ ‘Imbecile,’ she uttered faintly. “Why?” he asked, suavely. That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. “But your sister,” he said. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made.
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