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. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. “But you must forgive me, John. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You should have gone to Charvill. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up.
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