"Would I had never seen either of you!" cried Jack, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. But this was long ago. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white.
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