He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. 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. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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