The others hurried to the window. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. And a time will come, Veronica, mark my words, a time will come when you will bless me for my firmness to-night. She went to her own table and sat down. It was not your fault you failed. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. .
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