She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes. 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. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. "I'd rather you went over the last four chapters, which I haven't polished yet. Dump popped his head into the cage. ‘Say it. .
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