His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. McClintock, coming from below, saw them and went forward. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Impelled by a feeling, into which we shall not pause to inquire, the stranger started after them; but they were better mounted, and soon distanced him.
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