I don’t want to bother you, of course. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, 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! II. "You are all right?"—anxiously. She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her.
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