He donned his winter coat. 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. He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her descent. I’m so glad you’re not angry.
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