"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. 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. At least here she was safe.
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