" "Leave us together, my good woman," said Jack, putting a guinea into her hand. ’ ‘Hélas, poor you,’ Melusine rejoined sarcastically. " The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. ’ He stopped suddenly, dismay creeping into his face. He seemed to be about to move toward her. 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. " "Dying!" echoed the knight. ’ ‘Had a certificate for it,’ argued Roding. He glanced up at the coachman. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. . ’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain.
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