"Ah! traitor!" cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. It was 1582. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. I don’t care what divides us. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. He was detained. He talked about his driver's license, how he would soon inherit his older brother's BMW.
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