Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. His kisses drew deeper, he started unlacing her dress. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. 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 was good to me for the two years I stayed with her, she had a nice apartment in Galveston.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 09-09-2024 02:55:05
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