Sir Rowland then fell. He was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. She could even think of what had happened. 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 know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life.
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