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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. "Is your person in danger?" "Not from my creditors," replied Wood, significantly. Parbleu, but she was a fool. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us.
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