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Wood," urged Jack. Mr. Not MY affair. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. " "But, man, this chap hasn't fallen soft. You're welcome to it. ‘Oh, ah. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, 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! II. .
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