There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. “Four,” Anna decided firmly. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief.
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