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Not fit to be dust on your boots. 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. It was so hopeless to put it to them. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. “You ass and imbecile, Ann Veronica! You female cad! Cad! Cad!.
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