There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. ” She looked into her glass. ” “No,” she moaned, “not that. ” She looked up at him, and found he was watching her closely. . ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor.
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