“Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. "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. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. ” He mumbled, driving on. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones.
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