CHAPTER XXVI. 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. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. I have heard of you from my husband. But I'll not believe it of you. ‘The so-called Valade is an evil person, and should certainly be got rid of in the manner you describe. She uncrossed her legs and lowered herself, carefully and slowly, until she lay supine.
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