“You must tell me the truth, please. I shall count it a privilege. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. 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. Dear me! if there isn't his knock.
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