The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. 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. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings.
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