The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. Ruth took hers in the sea, but was careful never to go beyond her depth because of the sharks. 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. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket.
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