By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. Darting to a window looking in that direction, Thames threw it up, and discharged both his pistols, but without effect. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. Understand once and for all that that answer is final.
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