"Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. “I was hoping to be able to secure a few minutes’ conversation with you, Miss Pellissier. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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