‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Lost, stolen, or strayed, the Young Person!. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. 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.
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