"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 thought we had discussed that, father. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him.
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