Without Sheila, the denizens of the neighborhood might forget they had the ability to communicate with each other. She did not have the power of men. 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. "You will not make it valueless in my eyes," he added, catching her in his arms, and pressing her to his breast.
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