‘You do not like it?’ ‘That is hardly the point. . " CHAPTER XI. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. But the free arm of the stranger hit him a flail-like blow on the chest and sent him sprawling into the yielding sand. 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.
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