Surely she could ignore him. Both started. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. She bounced onto her bottom. 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. Not a moment is to be lost.
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