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. She had begun alone. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. ‘Well, this maid,’ went on Kimble eagerly, ‘and me, we gets to talking, see, and that’s how I knew he were off to this party. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “Hello, Vee!” he said. At length he proceeded toward McClintock's bungalow, drawn by the lights and the sound of music.
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