"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. “The rule’s all right, so long as there isn’t a case. “But your hair,” he gasped. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. Both of them. “Thank you, ma’am. ‘Never mind that now. " "Those terms were a third of my estate," observed Trenchard bitterly.
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