A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. You are in danger. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 02:34:08