She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. 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. “Good luck! Good luck!” She waved from the window until the bend hid him. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity.
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