“By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. 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. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate.
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