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Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. 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. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively.
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