’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously.
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