After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. And I don’t. What was his problem, she thought to herself. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. 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.
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