Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. She dressed quickly, pulling on white jeans and a red tee shirt. 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. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. F.
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