"My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. "So I will," rejoined Shotbolt; "so I will. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. " "You need not," replied Jack, in a tone of the deepest compunction.
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