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It would be too mortifying. Surely it was a dream. 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. ‘Say it. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. ’ She stopped, her lips tightening. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before.
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