She twisted her fingers tightly. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. 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. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened.
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