Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL.
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