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. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. “And yet I do it without compunction. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. ToC Thames Darrell's fears were not, however, groundless. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. "I took the course I pursued to serve you.
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