With a little sigh of happiness she accepted this new thing. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. “It is unimportant,” she said. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. 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 found my collection of witchcraft books under my bed and threw them away. .
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