"'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. 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. Never mind. "Well, Mrs. “Generally gets here about seven. I understand. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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