She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of 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. A white man takes his life in his hands.
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