"Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. " "Unpossible, master," rejoined Ben; "the tide's running down like a mill-sluice, and the wind's right in our teeth. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture.
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