Her hand grasped it firmly, and she pushed herself forward. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands. 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. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter.
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