Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant.
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