Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “In fact, yes, I do. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. " A moment afterwards, they quitted the house. ‘That is good. But it means no end of a row.
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