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. Then she was out of the door and running, fast. I speak no harm of her. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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