‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. A forgotten island beyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and move blindly in its search for him! From what he had read, there wouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. I took the money myself, and ought to know. I am a little afraid.
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