And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. “I must explain to her. 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. She had never heard anything so unholy. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security.
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