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. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral 435 XXVII. Will you lend me the money for my ticket to London?” “With all the pleasure in the world,” he answered heartily. ’ He did as she bid him, and was very soon rewarded by the discovery of an oval miniature, encased in gold. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. " "Oh! he told you that, did he?" said Blueskin, marching up to her, and chucking her under the chin. " "That he is," added Blueskin, approvingly. Then she saw him.
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