There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. "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 accepted the glass of wine, and bowed. She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. “That sounds interesting. I’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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