One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. I was afraid of being talked about. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames.
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