Now the doctor had the "feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. "Thanks to you," said the doctor. “I tell you it was a lie!” he shouted wildly. 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. ” He hesitated, and walked away from her toward the house. “I can’t endure it,” she said.
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