He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. 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. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. I'm in a funk," Spurlock confessed.
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