The bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that I know, where
Flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me. Oxen and
wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and
the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about
its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint
still ringing in my ears: Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!
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