It’s just like your Splendid Pride to do it. Wood, popping her head through the window. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. CHAPTER XXIII. As Mrs. 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. ‘I want a word with you, my lad. Wood, and you'll find that I've spoken the truth. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. ‘Pitiful.
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