She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. \" Diane chirped once again, ever-musical. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. All the world over a wedding procession arouses laughter and derision in the bystanders. She felt him as something solid and strong and trustworthy beyond measure. She held up the lamp. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed.
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