Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, 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! III.
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