Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. Who invented them? Nobody knows. I do not care in the least. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. 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. Nuns, I mean. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. But most of all, I wanted to love. It will be his interest to do so.
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