Sheppard, eagerly. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. He sees men all defiled by coarse thoughts, coarse ways of living cruelties.
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