"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. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. You had better go to bed. The Denunciation VI.
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