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He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of
hallways that towered over her in their grayness. 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. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old
Kanaka woman had foretold. I hope you won’t think less of me, you’ve
treated me so well. “I have noticed,” he said, “that you seem to delight in taking a topsy-turvy view
of life. Oh, peste, he will ruin all.
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This video was uploaded to m.damaulifm.org on 07-07-2024 09:44:19