Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. He handed Ruth a letter. 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. The letter will explain all. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech.
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