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. “Yes?” he said. He saw Enschede, making the empty sea, alone, alone, forever alone. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. "I don't see why I should be obliged to pay for doing my duty. Yet the fact remains that you do not understand me at all.
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