’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. “Let your friends act for you. Here it is. 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. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first.
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