Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. Just now my best ones are all taken.
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