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 forbids—all sorts of things. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. Mother—dear mother!" he added, clasping her in his arms, "Look at me again. The thought had not even occurred to him. Oh, Jack! repent, while it is yet time, of your evil conduct. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair.
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