She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She laid her hand upon his arm. 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. “I do hope that I shall be able to make it up to you.
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