There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. "Mr. Jack may be capable of much that is wicked, but he would never lift his hand against his friend,—of that I am assured. Its importance had vanished with her abandonment of compromise. Wood dandled his little charge to and fro, after the most approved nursery fashion, essaying at the same time the soothing influence of an infantine melody proper to the occasion; but, failing in his design, he soon lost all patience, and being, as we have before hinted, rather irritable, though extremely well-meaning, he lifted the unhappy bantling in the air, and shook him with so much good will, that he had well-nigh silenced him most effectually. ‘I do not believe you. \"He's good-looking. His eyes never left her face. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Then he sensed the trap.
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