“Well?” he asked her tersely. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. " "Wait a bit, massa," replied the grinning negro,—"lilly bit—see all right fust. 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'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?” “For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared.
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