“Sooner or later, John, it will come to that. ” Annabel shook her head. Practically all. 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 can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. ‘You keep a-hold of him,’ Trodger ordered his men. But of course the money will not be refunded.
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