Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. And then—this sudden thrust. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. After a while he spoke again. 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.
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