“What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head. Wood, leaping from the bed. 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. “Call me Cathy, John.
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