There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. I love some one else. She was gone.
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