“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. 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. I don’t quite know why. There were two. . " Silence. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. But I proved it to them! Oh yeah, I told John, but I don’t think he believes me either.
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