There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. ‘And it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish.
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