’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. The Pursuit. Before her was a great Gothic portal. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. "Mr. ” The tall young man dropped his eye-glass and smiled. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts.
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