It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. 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. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. T. ‘We?’ Gerald smiled.
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