” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. 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. I'm one of those unfortunate duffers who have too much imagination—the kind who build their own chimeras and then run away from them. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive.
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