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CHAPTER II.
IN the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of emigration crept in among
the few survivors, who, congregating from various parts of England, met in
London. This spirit existed as a breath, a wish, a far off thought, until
communicated to Adrian, who imbibed it with ardour, and instantly engaged
himself in plans for its execution. The fear of immediate death vanished
with the heats of September. Another winter was before us, and we might
elect our mode of passing it to the best advantage. Perhaps in rational
philosophy none could be better chosen than this scheme of migration, which
would draw us from the immediate scene of our woe, and, leading us through
pleasant and picturesque countries, amuse for a time our despair. The idea
once broached, all were impatient to put it in execution.
We were still at Windsor; our renewed hopes medicined the anguish we had
suffered from the late tragedies. The death of many of our inmates had
weaned us from the fond idea, that Windsor Castle was a spot sacred from
the plague; but our lease of life was renewed for some months, and even
Idris lifted her head, as a lily after a storm, when a last sunbeam tinges
its silver cup. Just at this time Adrian came down to us; his eager looks
shewed us that he was full of some scheme. He hastened to take me aside,
and disclosed to me with rapidity his plan of emigration from England.
To leave England for ever! to turn from its polluted fields and groves,
and, placing the sea between us, to quit it, as a sailor quits the rock on
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