‘Dear me. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. With his foodle doo! This carpenter he had a wife, The plague and torment of his life, Who, though she did her husband scold, Loved well a woollen-draper bold. \"Yep. One cannot trust any man at all. And mind he doesn't stir out of your sight, on any pretence whatever, till I call. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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