His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford.
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