"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. Once he had managed to stake his claim, she would have all to do to prove her identity and win it back. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. Brendon.
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