There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Jonathan kept his keen eye fixed upon him, as he addressed himself for a moment to the Hollander. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. "Dying, Sir Rowland. Perhaps he truly meant it – perhaps there was a force within him that could withstand the hardships of existing past a mortal lifetime. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Every human being is a new thing, exists to do new things. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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