"Shall I never see that sweet face again,—never feel the pressure of those kind hands more—nor listen to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall speedily join you. 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. Á bientot—Melusine. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. I feel like a fraudulent trustee.
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