" "But why not?" The doctor dallied with his teaspoon. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL.
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