’ The familiar hollow opened up inside Melusine’s chest, and she could not prevent the husky note that entered her voice. 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. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief.
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