I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. "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. She wasn’t well-liked really, I think people were jealous of her. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. Indeed, if he had been ignorant of it, the sound of voices which he could faintly distinguish, would have served as a caution to him.
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