Let—it—fall. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. From the white beach the palms ran in serried rows quarter of a mile inland, then began a jungle of bamboo, gum-tree, sandalwood, plantain, huge fern, and choking grasses.
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