Their colorful displays seemed to repel the dreariness of the sky as each group savored its long awaited moment, its weekend arrival in front of the opposite sex. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner. The disgrace of the leaders of the late Tory administration had strengthened, rather than injured, their cause. 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. He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot.
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