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. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. They were familiar but more massive. For a time she furnished the flat. And let us go on with our evening.
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