In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. "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. It fell with a clatter to the floor. That’s really why we do them sometimes rather well and get on. If the boy was legging it alone…. ” Annabel shrugged her shoulders.
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