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. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. What was his problem, she thought to herself. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. For my own part, I don't see in what way it is to be accomplished, except by the payment of our customary fees.
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