In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “Thank you,” she said coolly. ‘I can answer that. My heart fails me. ‘Dear me. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her.
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