"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. She must not tell Martha about Gerald. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation.
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