"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. He looked distant, irritated. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. Sheppard, again arresting his departure. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink.
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