Part 8
“Why should I ever come back?” she said to herself, as she went down the
staircase. 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. Stanley,
putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor,
and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity,
asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do
you propose to live?”
“I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. His breath grew shallower as he
approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his
hallway-reverberated footfalls. Maggot. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think
that I know you, do I?”
“I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be
encouraging. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. He went over her features one by one in his mind.
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