“Hainault, Celeste’s friend. 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. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. When he was up and about, the idea of flight would return. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. 1. Beck, it smells wonderful in here.
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