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To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. 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. “So that’s the way it is. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland.
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This video was uploaded to southmsnightout.com on 31-05-2024 00:14:23
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