She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. You're luck. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. "Do me the favour to seat yourself, Jack," said Sir James.
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