I seek chaos, but not out of choice. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle.
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