Fiercely defensive, as usual. She hesitated. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. She had remained patently unavailable to him. “I can’t see what possible benefit can come of discussing things that are settled. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. 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.
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