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It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. " "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. More than half the city perished. "You forgot your lunch," she said. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves.
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