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Who is it?” The man came a little further into the room. Now Owen Wood had one fair child, Unlike her mother, meek and mild; Her love the draper strove to gain, But she repaid him with disdain. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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