” He consumed Irish stew for some moments. Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. The ring's yours, and you're mine. 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. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below.
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