“Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. 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 flew up from her stool and faced the door. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. Supposing you take them and read them? You might be able to tell me why I felt disappointed.
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