Listen, it is I. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. But he did not follow on with the thought. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. “Thanks, Mister McCloskey. 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.
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