’ ‘Bravo,’ applauded Lucilla, clapping her hands. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river.
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