"What poet was that?" "Stevenson. I have counted you, and always hoped to count you, the best of my friends. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. It is dull—deadly dull. "Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice. The three of them laughed joyously.
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