Gerald lifted an eyebrow. “Limp,” he answered. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. The lady had disappeared. 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. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room.
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