"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. ’ ‘Then what?’ demanded Lucilla in a hushed tone. 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. " "There you are, just as I said. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. F. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose.
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