The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right. Sweatshirts and sweatpants were in for a while but they’re out now. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made.
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