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. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. "Ja, ja, Muntmeester," said the Hollander, shaking his head in reply;—"very bad —very. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. The man’s passion was infectious. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person.
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