"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. Annabel had been here then. Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. ‘This is not love, Marthe. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out.
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