‘This we will leave. I just suppose it isn’t worth the trouble. I have tried not to tell you—tried to be simply your friend. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. I told him the truth. Oh, peste, he will ruin all. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. He’s dead.
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