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. "Quilt Arnold called this morning to say so. “I don’t think she will,” she said. ‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. Kneebone nodded. Something in her tone made him look up. Jesus! They just wouldn’t let up about you after you played the violin for them. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that.
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