There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. And if one were to love some one very much, it’s just so that one would be blindest, just when one wanted most to see. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you. Sheppard heaved a deep sigh, and opened her eyes, which now looked larger, blacker, and more melancholy than ever. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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