"Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. ” She glanced into his blue eyes wearily. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. 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. His grey eyes burned under his shaggy eyebrows. “Rather darker than most of them. He is coming here to tea. I love some one else. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers.
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