And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. Gerald stayed him. "Then, the story of his death was false. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. 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.
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