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They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. "Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. ” Lucy observed, watching her friend. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. "England or France, London or Paris, it's all one to me, so I've you to command me. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury.
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