This became very interesting. The next morning came a compact letter from her father. It isn’t. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. He never felt any need to explain himself. His business has thriven; legacies have unexpectedly dropped into his lap; and, to crown all, he has made a large fortune by a lucky speculation in South-Sea stock,—made it, too, where so many others have lost fortunes, your humble servant amongst the number—ha! ha! In a word, Sir, Mr. "Give me your thorough-paced villain.
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