She always left the table when they began to smoke. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St.
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