Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the carpenter's ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a sight which filled him with fresh apprehensions. His frowning gaze came back to her. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. . . " "Your husband?" "No. Manning central in her mind. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. "Come, off with it, sirrah, or I'll blow out your brains, in the first place, and strip you afterwards. She crooked her finger. Not if I read her aright.
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