Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. 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. The assemblage which was gathered together was almost countless. I’ll pay it. The by now familiar dramatic sigh came.
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