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. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. He used his utmost efforts to liberate Jack from Langley, but closely pressed on all sides, he was not able to render any effectual assistance. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Never sent for the shirt. Where's the dining room? And, say, can I have some eggs? This jam-tea breakfast gets my goat. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying.
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