" "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “I knew you would begin to see how it all falls into place together. . It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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