“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. ‘Tell me, my boy. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. ‘I’ll make it, miss. 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. Wood sank, submissively, into a chair, while his daughter hastened to execute her arbitrary parent's commission.
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