I have a special interest in Mary Remenham because I believe I have discovered her daughter. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Again silence. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river.
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