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 would read my mind?’ Gerald was pretty certain he already had, but he did not say so. The modern parts of the book were inspired by my worldview of high school as pure, unadulterated Hell. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. He really deserves a better fate, does he not? He is so beautifully persistent.
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