There were two sisters, you know. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. I am on my way to an aunt who lives in Hartford, Connecticut. 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. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. Wood. " "It is," answered Wood. ” “We will go to a very quiet place,” he assured her, “a place where I have often taken my own sisters.
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