Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “I know that our social order is dreadful enough,” he said, “and sacrifices all that is best and most beautiful in life.
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