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By and by he ventured to peer into this window. 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. The very blank, however, affected him more deeply than if it had been left. Worse than any man. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. The Return. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm.
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