Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. There is no future for me here. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. ” She tried to sound convincing as she looked away hotly. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it.
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