And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. “I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered. 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. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.
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