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Updated: June 22, 2025
"But look here, Joe," cried Rodd, as he stood shading his eyes from the horizontal sunbeams; "there's the river, and the mist's rolling along with the tide. Here, I'm puzzled. Which way did we come?" "Why, that's plain enough, Mr Rodd, sir. Down with the stream yon way." "But that must be down-stream." "Nay, not it, my lad. The river winds, and so did my head. Here, I'm all of a maze still.
"I'm nae your doggie, I'm a Man of Peace," was the reply. "Dinna miscall your betters, Brockburn: why will ye not credit our existence, man?" "Seein's believin'," said the Laird, stubbornly; "but the mist's ower thick for seein' the night, ye ken."
From his secret retreat he addressed letters to his son-in-law Baker, complaining of his having been inhumanly ill-used by someone whom Mr. Lee, one of his biographers, conjectures was Mist, the proprietor of Mist's Journal, with whom Defoe had been associated in business.
The real portrait of a fine lady, wife to one of the ancient and noble family of the Fanes, Earls of Westmoreland, drawn by her husband, and inscribed in old characters upon a wall of a room in Buxton Place, a seat belonging to the noble family, near Maidstone, in Kent. Taken from Mist's Journal.
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