“Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The hills surrounded her cave
home protectively. We shall have a reg'lar
squall afore we gets across. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She
squealed. Her English
was halting. 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 yelled but he had no breath to support his
own voice. The turnkey looked
round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTUuMTkyLjE1MiAtIDAxLTA3LTIwMjQgMTM6NDU6NDIgLSAxNzk0MzQyODg2
This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 28-06-2024 22:31:43