‘And so you sneak back,’ she threw at him, ‘like the jackal that you are. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III. ” Lucy reflected. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind.
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