She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. It’s not like we’re getting married. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. Them young prigs is all alike. So I dare say I was christened Jack. 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.
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