She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She tried to think what she should do in this eventuality or that. They crossed the street, and entering the front door passed up the outside stone steps of the flat. 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. Not up here, I think. You MUST not, you SHALL not go.
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