An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. 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 am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes.
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