Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it.
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