Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. 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. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. He must know she’ll be at a convent. .
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