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. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. Yet she held her tongue. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. Paris copies London. —I'll soon find you out.
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