Sheppard. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. Kneebone said, just now. 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. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. I’m not such a bad sort. " "Can I have a word with you, master?" said Sheppard, approaching Wood. “We don’t pretend.
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