There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. At length, I shall ascertain my name. But not today. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back.
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