There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. "These writer chaps are queer birds. " "You had better write them for me, Mr. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. She could read that Martin had a crush on her and was perhaps even going to try and challenge John as he was the bold sort. “If one was free,” she said, “one could go to him.
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