But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. He might have supposed the fellow would be eager to be rid of the tale, for that he might have longer to enjoy the amenities of the Triumphal Chariot where the meeting had been appointed. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Period trying desperately to cover her nudity with a dingy hand towel she had found lying on the floor in a corner. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. 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.
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