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How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. ” She yelled. 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. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. " "Would you like to have me read to you?" He did not answer.
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