The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream—the darkling current hurrying by—the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their way in ghostlike silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their note—the solemn shadows cast by the bridges—the deeper gloom of the echoing arches—the lights glimmering from the banks—the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary barge—the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned through the obscurity;—these, and other sights and sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a place. Is this man Hill dead?” She shook her head. “You cannot! Oh, you cannot. Never mind. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. When she reflected that Mr. . By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. So I am already no longer the girl you knew at Morningside Park. net This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
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