They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. " "Why didn't he arrest Mr. " "Norris!" gasped Lady Trafford, trembling violently. I don't know how to explain it," said Spurlock, "but music hits women queerly. 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. "However, I will be there. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner.
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