He recoiled from the sting. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. But he wrote on. “Shit happens, John. 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. I’ve got a lot of things to think about. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette.
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