His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. 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. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her.
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