‘Sapristi,’ he gasped. And let ush go back to our brandewyn, and hollandsche genever. Ruth was not a woman; she was a phenomenon. His voice had broken. He did not spend more time with her. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III.
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