The odds were astounding and yet he had it bad. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. For five days The Tigress chugged her way across the burnished South China, grumpily, as if she resented this meddling with her destiny. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him.
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