“The only ships alongside the wharves were small, nondescript domestic-looking vessels with the names of unpronounceable Baltic ports painted on their sterns, washing flapping from the afterdeck and scruffy-looking sailors loafing on the rails. But the lower Thames always stirred Sir Lancelot powerfully. Perhaps the sea was in his blood, he wondered. After all, his younger brother was the captain of a liner, which he commanded in much the same spirit as he had run his own operating theatre. As h...e watched, the twin bascules of Tower Bridge rose slowly into the air. They looked more enticing than the arms of any woman. The water below his feet was the oily threshold of seven oceans, and there was nothing – absolutely nothing at all – between himself and far-off seas where the sun burnt its way across an empty sky before setting in an explosion of magenta, where dolphins trundled beside the ship’s bows and flying-fish skipped across the ripples thicker than the cabbage-whites in his garden at midsummer, and where there was an island or two with palm-trees and various trouble-free horticultural products, where a man could lie in the sun with his head cradled in the lap of a dusky girl, who smiled and stroked his brow and never even once disagreed with his opinions.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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