" As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him from his slumbers. It was explosive and gratifying. The chair is in the veranda. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself. " "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL.
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