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Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold, Rattled their chains in that dungeon old; Of all that number there 'scaped not one Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. Figg?" said Jack, peevishly. “We can be alone?” She inquired. “I would marry your sister anyhow, under any circumstances,” he answered. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer.
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