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. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. “There isn’t any way you could be worse than John.
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