“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. There was no rush. 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. ‘Dieu du ciel, but answer me!’ Martha’s eyes were swimming again, and she reached out. . . He did not look at her directly, though she fantasized that she could 141 feel his stares from the back of the class on occasion.
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