‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. “May you have as much good fortune as you deserve, but not enough to make you forget us. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. He died in the war. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Besides, it was not the lodgekeeper’s business to know that “other matters” included a reluctance on Gerald’s part to allow his little company to conduct the search without him, and he’d had an engagement this morning.
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