She was ushered into the back of the squad car. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. That's part of the bargain. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. 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.
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