"To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. As for me, I look twice at 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. And we men would work for them and serve them in loyal fealty. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life.
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