"Do not despair, my sweet soul," said Wood, in a soothing tone. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. ” The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket. I consented.
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