In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. “I dare not,” she answered. I stubbornly insisted that we wait, and you woke up.
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