"
There was no answer for a moment; and from those tall houses, whose
lighted windows he had apostrophized, Miltoun turned away towards the
river. "No," said the voice beside him, "for all its faults, the wind
blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. By God, I
would rather see a few stars struggle out in a black sky than any of
your perfect artificial lighting."
And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never free himself
from the echoes of that voice--it was not worth while to try. "We are
repeating ourselves," he said, dryly.
The river's black water was making stilly, slow recessional under a
half-moon. Beneath the cloak of night the chaos on the far bank, the
forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping
barges, a--million queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion. All
was religious out there, all beautiful, all strange. And over this great
quiet friend of man, lamps--those humble flowers of night, were throwing
down the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweet-scented
wind stole along from the West, very slow as yet, bringing in advance
the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the
river had loved as she came by.
A murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to a
heart, accompanied this voyage of the dark water.
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