‘Now then, missie. Now go. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. Now lend me your own hand. My own impression is that he already knows. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. ‘What Frenchman would that be, missie? We ain’t let no one escape. Probably she mistook you; probably she thought you cared.
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