While this was taking place, another and more serious interruption occurred. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. 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. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried.
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