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. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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