ToC Saint Giles's Round-house was an old detached fabric, standing in an angle of Kendrick Yard. 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. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. “I am staying at the Savoy. ’ Hilary eyed him.
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