Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends.
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