Her lips parted, but no words came. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. She comprehends what we're about. 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 heard it open, but as she felt unable to look round in a careless manner she pretended not to hear it. She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "Some dreadful deed is about to be committed, which I may perhaps prevent," muttered Jack to himself.
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