"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. He felt the first sting of the whip. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. You know—if you want freedom. He held in his hands many threads.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 01-10-2024 02:49:38