There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. In the struggle her cap fell off. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly.
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