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. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. ‘Never fear, my love.
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