I’d rather not go,” she added. 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. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. Wood required little pressing.
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