“Martin, I don’t know what to say. \"Lucy?\" He called her as she turned. 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 rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. Only last night she saw me, and there was horror in her eyes. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral.
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