There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. ‘But I have the pistol,’ Gerald pointed out. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. Then he remembered that she was Anna’s sister. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. Feel for the lock, and prize it open,—you don't need to be told how.
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