" "Six weeks!" exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. 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. " "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. Perhaps because I don’t know. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me.
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