“Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. In the South Seas, money is the eliminated middleman.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQwLjIwNy4yMDcgLSAwMi0wNi0yMDI0IDA1OjAwOjAyIC0gMTE5MzA5NzE2
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