CHAPTER I. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. Mr. ’ Melusine shook him off. They are not your children, they never were. “You are in trouble,” he said. 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. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.
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