He inspected the formidable array of rifles and at length walked over to the register. 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. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. So he dashed himself from the highest turret of the castle he had made to the rocks below!” “Lucy, open the door, it’s me, Martin. Brown.
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