” He went to the window and fidgeted with the blind, looking out to where the tree-tops of Regent’s Park showed distantly over the houses. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. The distinction lay chiefly in the right to pat their heads.
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