He's down in Patagonia somewhere. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. . Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Sailors would leave them at the trader's. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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