'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. We men are like children. The assemblage which was gathered together was almost countless. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. "Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper.
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