“God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. She still had her letter of credit. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink. He stopped abruptly. 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. She did her best to do this. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer.
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