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Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. 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. ” “I suppose I must have thought so. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. ” Lucy instructed. "Coupling their presence with Jack's speech, I couldn't help fearing some mischief might ensue. "Often.
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