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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. The fire still burned brightly. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. ’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. Saren Chen was a tall woman, thin and beautiful in a masculine way, Germanic.
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