Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. He called a waiter. They thought that she was her own mother. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. But his own situation was too perilous to admit of his rendering any assistance to the ill-fated waterman. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply.
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