The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. 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. When the twins had first come to live in the 208 house, they were thin and bony, their tiny mouths crying for food. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform.
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