"Well, it's a good story. I can’t do it even decently myself, and I dare not run the risk of ruining all my clothes. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. 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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