" "Sir Rowland is my brother," resumed Lady Trafford coldly. ‘As I said, a mistake. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. 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. Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed.
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