The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. 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 thank God for His sunlight on your face. . Say I will come to him. He was asleep.
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