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Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and

infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its

way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting up

before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint Pancras,

far off in the fields. It got there in course of time; insisted

on pouring into the burial-ground; finally, accomplished the

interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and highly to

its own satisfaction.