Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. "It's more than I am," muttered Thames. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. 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 world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers.
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