ToC Tyburn was now at hand. He would pull this young fellow back; but later he knew that he would have to fight the boy's lack of will to live. 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. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. It’s time she knew. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. It was free of leering men, unthinkable punishments, and human evil. "Crime upon crime.
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