She went into premature labor. "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. He must have married when he was quite a young man. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. We understand that, notwithstanding the serious nature of the man’s injuries, there is every possibility of his recovery. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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