A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. The doctor nodded. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P.
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