” “I say,” she reflected, “you ARE rather the master, you know. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. 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. Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. " "Won't one from me do as well?" interposed Mrs. Wait a little; rest. And then, there would be the question of money. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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