And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. 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. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment.
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