There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. She got up and unlocked the door. "What does Mr. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. All his dreams shattered in an instant. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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