His last actions were futile. There was absolute quiet. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. 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. Of Jack Sheppard or the assailants they could not discover a single trace. "As long as you please, Sir," answered the matron, dropping a curtsey.
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