In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. And taking the keys, he departed on the errand. Lucy pinned her hair off her neck and hoped it would make her to look decidedly older. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. Do look at this tragedy in mauve, who has just come in. ‘Imbecile.
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