Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. I don’t want you to talk to me now. 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. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. Ownership seemed only a reasonable return for the cares and expenses of a daughter’s upbringing. "Adorable girl!" he cried, in the most impassioned tone, and with the most impassioned look he could command.
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