“You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made.
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