He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. "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. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand.
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