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"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. "Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or Blueskin, I think he's called. 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. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. No! That was impossible.
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This video was uploaded to linkbaronet4.com on 26-06-2024 22:58:45
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