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. She entered the last room, his bedroom. With incredible labour, and by the aid of both spike and nail, he succeeded in getting the point of the bar beneath the fillet. Now you're up, take this spike. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Just one thing more. Spurling, "I hope he may never see Tyburn.
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