It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. So was I, in fact. ‘Then open it quickly. “Can you spare me a moment?” he asked. 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. ‘I am fascinated.
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