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. There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. “Didn’t you know he was married?” asked Miss Klegg, and was struck by a thought that made her glance quickly at her companion.
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