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“My word holds,” she said. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Get the men back to their posts. " "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames. I am going up to dine with my sister. Wood will protect you," urged Mrs.
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