After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. 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 grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. F.
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