It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. " "You have no son," rejoined Sir Rowland, moodily. He turned and shouted some orders to the Kanaka crew, then nodded to the sampan's coolies, who bore upon the sweeps and headed for the Sha-mien. " "Oh Heavens!" cried Jack, driven to his wits' end. Spit of your mother. Give me that precious charge," he added, snatching the bundle from Wood.
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