Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. " "He's let out for a few hours," laughed Kneebone; "but he's going back again after supper. ” “What did your aunt say?” “She didn’t even kiss me. “No, no,” she cried. They could no longer stay in one place. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. 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.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 22-08-2024 13:58:47
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