‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. It's a sorry world," he went on. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. 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 vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband.
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