” Lucy walked out of her bedroom door following Mike down the tiny hall. 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, who'd have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!" said Ireton. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction.
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