A fever of shame ran through her being. 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. . ” Lucy reflected. “In a sense—yes. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. I am one of those people who are interested in women, more interested than I am in anything else.
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