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It was a dead calm. Spurling, squeezing Jack's arm, and pushing him towards the door, "and, don't come here again. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Preparations were next made for taking Thames on board. The affair was thick with sinister suggestions. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them.
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