I had left Paris. ” He said flatly. ” She turned away. 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. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. "Poor Mrs.
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