She said she hoped she had not distressed him by the course she had felt obliged to take, and he told her not to be a fool. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. 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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