Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. ‘Oh, peste. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. Always as black and bitter as gall. 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.
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