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. Still no sound. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Mr. Come along, you mad jade. You can have no shecrets from me.
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