Good-bye, aunt. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. We men are like children. “I should really like to find somewhere to stay, if it was only for a few nights. Then all the embarrassments of the matter flashed in upon her. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens.
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