And Mrs. 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. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. “I want to have no distractions. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way.
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