238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. So Mrs. 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. "Well, well, we'll say no more about it," replied Wood; "and, by way of changing the subject, let me advise you on no account to fly to strong waters for consolation, Joan. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. Supposing you fetch what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. “I don’t take any prisoners, John! You do not want this life!” “Yes I do! I am an adult. Besides, didn't I tell you that I giv' him as good as he brought—and better! I jist touched him with my 'Evenin' Star,' as I call this shillelah," said the watchman, flourishing an immense bludgeon, the knob of which appeared to be loaded with lead, "and, by Saint Patrick! down he cum'd like a bullock. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. ‘Let her go.
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