His brain reeled. 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. And at length her penultimate day in Morningside Park dawned for her. He was human. One always dreamed of this and never believed it. They were familiar but more massive.
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