"And what do you suppose we mean to do with you, eh?" "You mean to kill me," replied Thames, "by my cruel uncle's command. All the rest is humbug and delicacy. You have been burning paper, I see. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. 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. Sheppard, I'm sure, will say as much for you. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy.
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