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. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. “This is the slavery of the veiled life. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields.
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