Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. 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. We close the chapter. This accident rather confirms than checks my purpose. The boy was bright and inquisitive as he was subtle. But I suppose as I’ll have to wait until you can hear me to tell you again. I thought that I was marrying Meysey Hill, not that creature.
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