"How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. "Hold hard," cried he, addressing the waterman; "I'll give the gentleman a lift. 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. If you will think only of one trifling aspect—the inconvenience it must be to us to explain your absence—I think you may begin to realize what it all means for us. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs.
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