There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. To her, marriage would be a buckler against the two evils which pursued her. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her.
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