It was a mad half-hour. “Not a bit. 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. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. Have you not tired of sadness and pain?” 81 She thought she could hear tears in his voice but would not look at him. His grip twisted her wrist.
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