Marvel, who, as he had helped to deprive her of her former husbands, thought himself in duty bound to offer to supply their place. "It's better," observed Sheppard, meaningly. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. " "Nor any one else in his senses," rejoined Wood, with a laugh. At last his voice came to release her tension.
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