CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this. You don’t know. 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. So, not exactly hopefully but earnestly, she returned to the feet of God. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. ‘You wish to tell me something? Parbleu, I have nearly forgot once more. " And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect produced by this announcement. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh. There was a pause, and then the front door slammed.
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