“And where are YOU going?” he said. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. She looked steadfastly out. ‘Melusine. 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. . ” At the sight of her tears his expression changed to a mingling of triumph and concern.
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