Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. So far the boy's mind was clear. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. 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. While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. "Arrest!" vociferated Wood.
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