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You have been burning paper, I see. . And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. 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. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 03-10-2024 03:14:33