"Who's there?" cried Rachel. ’ Taken aback, Gerald let out a short laugh. 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. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. .
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