ToC "How do you mean to act, Sir?" inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were left alone. "You," answered Jack, abruptly. 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. By this time, several of the terrified domestics appeared with lights. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. .
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