“I see the difficulty. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued. I wonder if a man can quite understand that passionate feeling? It is quite a passionate feeling. “Um, okay. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. She's the boss.
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