Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. “I thought much of it amazingly beautiful. 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 found an old drunk wandering the streets. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. From the portals of the hotel—scarcely fifty yards from the canal—one saw the blank face of the ancient city of Canton. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk.
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