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. "You know not what you do. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously.
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