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. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide.
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