There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. ” “May I put you in a hansom?” he asked, lifting his stick. Here was one that subtly mocked her.
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