—Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty.
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