" "Waste not another word with him, Thames," cried Jack. Capes and her father stood up, and her father made a belated movement toward the curtain. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Thames Street was wholly impassable. " "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you.
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