“Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. " "Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. "But this is good enough to travel in, isn't it?" "To be sure it is. She decided to go on, after a momentary halt. I rarely set foot in London these days. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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