His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. "Every brick I take out," cried Jack, as fresh rubbish clattered down the chimney, "brings me nearer my mother. She felt pride sashay into her thoughts.
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