Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. We two. "Let him alone," said Trenchard authoritatively, "I have another question to propose. 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. Wild," said Sheppard. " "A Chinaman. Do you know this, Sir?" he added, taking a key from his pocket. “I’m not so sure.
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