“Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. Little Anna screamed and thrashed as she was torn from Lucy’s skirts. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. It's sixteen days down, with The Tigress. “Is that plain?” she asked. Hang it, there must be something about her that will give it away. 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. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. "I do," replied Jack, carelessly.
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