He hung over her—he and his loan to her
and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting
possibility of annoyance and exposure. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done?
Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?”
He crossed his arms. “Where are they?” She looked around. The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves
through the stream—the darkling current hurrying by—the indistinctly-seen
craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their way in ghostlike silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from
afar, have something doleful in their note—the solemn shadows cast by the
bridges—the deeper gloom of the echoing arches—the lights glimmering from
the banks—the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some
stationary barge—the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned
through the obscurity;—these, and other sights and sounds of the same character,
give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in
meditation at such a time and in such a place. He sat on the bed, throwing
aside his hat. Fast and Loose
415
XXIII. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large table. He did so care for you. .
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