\"Oh. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. I have never wept since that day. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. Now I do. "That's a good story, lad.
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