‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. 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. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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