She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. She fought him at first, screaming at him, but he did not relent. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. Let him be sure. God is a jealous God, and He turned upon me relentlessly. The angels in Heaven shall not tear you from me.
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