But when Ruth's hand fell gently upon his bony head, he knew that no one in this house would ever offer him a kick. I never could. 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. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. “Perhaps you will not object to answering one for me.
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