"Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, 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! III. "He has robbed him. I didn’t see everything last time. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. Still silence everywhere.
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