"It must look sharp then, or I shall give it the slip," laughed Ben: "the gale never yet blowed as could perwent my crossing the Thames. And she’s pluck to the backbone. "And what do you suppose we mean to do with you, eh?" "You mean to kill me," replied Thames, "by my cruel uncle's command. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably.
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