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. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. That person advanced towards him. ’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. His slightest move caused her infinite pleasure. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. ’ Gerald cast a swift look up the corridor, but there was no one there, not even a shadow. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. It seems Valade visited him that day to present his credentials, and Charvill posted straight off to inform his great-uncle.
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