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’ Gerald ignored this. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. "Good-bye, young man; and good luck. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. 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. ’ Gerald reached out and took her hand, enclosing it between both his own. “You are a miracle! God spares few from the Pestilence. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. It's only a gentleman come to offer you his hand.
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