She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. "Is it by lettin' you go, my darlin', that I'm to airn it?" inquired Terence. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh.
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