The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. He bent to her hand, and she slipped off the ring and gave it to him to examine. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. ‘Exactly like my father. 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. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast.
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