In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. He picked up the remote and sat himself to her right. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. He saw, without any particular regret, that this year he would have to forego the junket; but there would be ample compensation in the study of these queer youngsters. It does sound a little horrid to talk so much about oneself and to have views. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it.
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