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"Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. 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. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. “Oh, I can’t thank you. She tended the twins while the Clotilde was in Sebastian’s private chambers, a place she gave a wide berth. Produce them!" "Never!" replied Kneebone. He told me that he was a millionaire. I’ve—dreads. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.
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