" "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “I don’t know where to go to. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. Our land brings us in nothing. Half an hour afterwards the body of Jack was carefully examined. "Fly, Captain—fly!" Aroused to a sense of the possibility of escape, Jack, who had viewed the deadly assault with savage satisfaction, burst from his captors and made for the door. .
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