"You have forgotten your knife, Mr. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. Man, if you tell her you love her, and later they took you away to prison, who would sit at the prison gate until your term was up? Ruth. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. There was no one to be seen.
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