” “You are going to sing in London?” he said quietly. His age was not far from fifty. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Later on—well then the time may come.
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