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She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. 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. It’s a thing that’s happened to you. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. They are horrible. Earles is going out at twelve sharp—important engagement. I do not want to get only a second-hand flavour of life. ‘Never.
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