” She said dryly. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. The theme was a masquerade. 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. . Marry me.
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