Rank ingratitude, I call it. 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 made me over. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. At length, the body was brought towards him. I don’t know anyone. Anyone would be intrigued. And besides—We’re going to live, Ann Veronica! Oh, the things we’ll do, the life we’ll lead! There’ll be trouble in it at times—you and I aren’t going to run without friction. The whole neighbourhood was disturbed. She could run away from him, if she wished, as she had run away from her father; she could carry out the original adventure. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. Spurlock plodded through the heavy sand, leaden in the heart and mind as well as in the feet.
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