"Hurrah! come along, Thames; we're free. Something he saw there made him feel for a moment ashamed. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. My wife—killed me. 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.
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