There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. ’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Listening attentively, he fancied he heard the breathing of some one near him, and moved cautiously in the opposite direction. I had that coming.
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