Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night.
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