"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. ’ The lady’s face came round, a puzzled frown on her brow. We can’t even protect them from themselves. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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