Many a black veil hid a high-born dame, and the religious habit was no protection. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. “I remember you now,” he said. “Please come home.
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