Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. I meant mischief. 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. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. “I wrote it for you. ’ Amusement flickered in Gerald’s breast. Why had he offered her that kiss on board The Tigress? Perhaps that had been his hour of disenchantment.
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