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Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. I must bless him before I die. 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. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience.
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