She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color. 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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