When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. 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. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in.
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