" "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. Kneebone's. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves.
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