All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Were any thing to happen to him, Newgate wouldn't be what it is, nor Tyburn either. It was so difficult to put precisely.
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