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“Don’t lie to everyone, Lucy! You know it’s the truth!” Michelle defended herself. 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. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. “I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Even that he sleeps, I must give to him my thanks, for he has been excessively brave for me. Lucy stared like an automaton at Michelle’s unconscious 262 body, revolted at her own actions to the point of shock. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had.
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