In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. Babies and females have got to keep hold of somebody or go under—anyhow, for the next few generations. ‘What is it that you told him?’ ‘Nothing, miss, I swear.
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