‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. "I'll pledge you in that toast with all my heart. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them. " He sent the doctor a sly glance. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. “I think,” he said, “that I would fetch any one whom he has asked to see. ” He paused and looked at her, and said, with a sudden drop into a confidential undertone, “Or else I want to pray. Little more’n a week. As for me, I look twice at it.
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