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"No offence," returned Jonathan. 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. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. Aroused by the sound of the church bells, he resolved, at whatever risk, to attend Divine service. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving.
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