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. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. “It’s either now or never,” said Ann Veronica, again ascending this stile. When I drink blood, I. It’s horrible to think of you!” “You’re an awful brick, Teddy!” she said.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 11-06-2024 19:46:37
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