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. " "Never fear, Sir," replied Marvel. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. I speak no harm of her.
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