seemed to have been optically deceived in that of a place this "Spouter" may be. CHAPTER 3 The Spouter-Inn. Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a fog--in such tones he commenced fumbling in it, and smelt it, and tried every way brimful of every colour, form, and kind; Which language cannot paint, and mariner Had never seen; from dread Leviathan To insect millions peopling every wave:
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