’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. —D'ye hear?" Still the widow remained silent. " "Don't be angry with me, Sir," cried the widow, sobbing bitterly, "pray don't. 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.
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