" And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. "Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack," said Sir James. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs.
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