In a moment they were in the street outside. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. 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 was definitely following him. “We are clerks in the same bank.
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This video was uploaded to pok-ddal23.live on 14-05-2024 14:32:51
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