"I do," replied Jack, carelessly. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. The ladies can't sleep in their beds for him; and as to the men, they daren't go to bed at all. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. Book. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad.
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