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She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. 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. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. ‘You will release me at once, imbecile. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. I've foiled him hitherto, and will foil him yet. She passed down the stairs and into the street.

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