She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. ’ ‘How can I have more? You have taken my pistol. 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. I’m off to England. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. ‘Not where we’re going.
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