. . If she returns to the house from which we took her, her companions will laugh at her and smother her with ridicule. 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. Grudgingly he admired her. Placing chairs, therefore, he invited the ladies to be seated, and, paying a similar attention to Jack, began to help to the various dishes, and otherwise fulfil the duties of a host. We’ve done nothing to deserve it. I wonder ——” “London is a huge place,” Brendon said. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. CHAPTER XXVII.
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