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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. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. Shot him, do you hear?” “Good God!” he exclaimed, looking at her curiously. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. “I am afraid,” he said to Anna afterwards, “that it was a mistake to order the champagne sec. You know how those Russian students do? In Russia. You must let me take you to things—to meetings and things, to conferences and talks.
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