He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Mother and Son. ‘Now then,’ said the captain sternly, ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing here. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. Jack was not half your age when he died. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream.
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