Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. 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. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. For a few minutes all was silent. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. Put on that new dress—the one that's all white.
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