They are their mother’s sons. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honour, as an old family friend, of dining with 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. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. He laughed suddenly, and released her. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew.
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