Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. ‘That’s a loud one. 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. “The fool I have been!” he cried; and now speech was coming to him.
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