There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. She reloaded. “I MUST speak to you,” he said. " "No fear of that," laughed Kneebone. Or, if you must take off my clothes, don't dash cold water on my head. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. “Please don’t be sad.
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