"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. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. . ” His eyes were burning.
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