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“I—I shall be all right directly. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. To the duckling, peas, and other delicacies, intended for Mr. ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled. 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. ” “Well”—her breath failed her for a moment.
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