"In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Their conversation hung. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. “I feel shabby and disgraced. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. " "Mr.
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