He stood before her. The future Mrs Roding turned bright, laughing eyes on the major. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. 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. Winifred listened to his narration with the profoundest attention; and, when it concluded, her tearful eye and throbbing bosom told how deeply her feelings had been interested. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men.
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