No surprise, for Melusine was aware no Frenchman in his situation would dream of walking abroad unarmed. “What a little brick!” he murmured. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. 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. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing.
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