“You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. I take it, down where we're going will be nothing new to you. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III. ‘I am sure you will. “When you married me——” Her little hand flashed out across the table. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment.
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