“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. This time he couldn't get far. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. She knew the truth of it all right. And she’s pluck to the backbone. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. You're in a more serious scrape than you imagine. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful.
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