Ah, no, I have it wrong. In the South Seas, money is the eliminated middleman. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze. “Your little flag of pride must flutter down with the rest of them, Ann Veronica. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle.
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