A sinister thought edged in. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. Obviously he is still interested. Plainly. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. A pretty name for a pretty girl. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back.
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