The clock struck half-past ten. Loneliness. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking.
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