"Yes!" interrupted Spurlock, savagely. Rather a hazardous spot for a convalescent, and McClintock had been doubtful at first; but Spurlock declared that he was a good sailor, which was true. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. 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 winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically.
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