But I never seen Mr Charvill, and when the Frenchie come out, I followed him again, like you told me. 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. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. I dare say anything seemed better to her than the nun’s habit she had been obliged to use. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there.
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