Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. They walked two by two to the car, looking the part of 267 two weary spouses supporting their drunken mates after an all-night bender. 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. I'll dispose of the brat. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. The thing is to get the patient on his feet. And let's see if either of these women, who prate of their love for you, will do as much. Aren't we funny? And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human beings, to have someone like this come along! It is almost as if she were acting a rôle, and she isn't. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look.
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