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. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish.
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