Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. 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. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise.
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