Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. Her father became much less distant towards his only daughter in the days that followed. “It is not that.
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