“I thought you weren’t keeping up to the mark. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. And listen, John. 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. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. I think that I am very fortunate to have it to sign. “What else did Michelle say?” “She said that the guy was all broken up about it, that he had another woman on the side or something.
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