The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. There was Major Price—you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,—he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. You are without sense and not sympathique in the least. Having drunk as much as he thought prudent, and thanked his unknown friend for his attention, Jack again lay down on the straw, and indulged himself with another nap, intending to get up as soon as it was perfectly dark.
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