"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. Anna sent her away. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. "I never wear false whiskers," went on O'Higgins. John stared palely.
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