The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. 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 do not love any one. The odd creak was not to be avoided in an old house such as this. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops.
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