'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand. Alderman Dunstable, of the Borough Council of Marylebone.
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