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 trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. ‘Poor things. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. When I absorb a fact, my brain weighs the fact carefully and stores it away.
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