" "Stand off, Poll," rejoined the woollen-draper; "I don't want to hurt you. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east. 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. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére.
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