Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. Ah Cum was not a sailor, but he knew his water-front. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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