Why did he imagine she was making this journey to England? She feigned interest. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. 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. You will stop at once.
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