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. "You needn't gag me," he added, "I'll not cry out. “Is Coke okay?” He asked as he pulled into the gas station. A pretty name for a pretty girl. Mrs. Charcoal. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet.
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