"For what?" "I had the paper with me. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Wood in the deepest mourning. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier.
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