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‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. There was some one there. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. 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. " "Well," replied her son; "and you spurn the proposal. Wood, when he does return, I'd send him about his business. "My father!" she whispered.
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