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. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. Miss Annabel is her sister. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. Suddenly she had become afraid. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. Yet you catch her eye—you can’t seem to escape from it. ‘Don’t concern yourself.
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