Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. His fatigue was tacitly understood within the family; it was a phenomenon which everyone acknowledged as related to the trades. The fates are never so kind to me.
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