My old nurse lived in Plymouth with her daughter, and to her I meant to go.

I had a little money with me, and made good my escape.

My disguise saved me from suspicion and insult.
Last night, on my way to Worrel, I heard your cry for help, and my pistol stood me in good stead, for the first time.

There, Sir Everard, you know all.

I hate and despise myself for the dress I wear, but surely there is some excuse to be made for me." The Spanish eyes, swimming in tears, were raised imploringly to his, and Sir Everard was two-and-twenty, and very susceptible to a beautiful woman's tears.
"Very much excuse, my poor girl," he said, warmly.