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. There was no one to be seen. Wood started to his feet. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied.
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