With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. 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.
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