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” “How could you!” She exclaimed. But he was wide awake. “Why should it matter?” he said. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks. 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. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. She got to the driveway and was semi-surprised to see that his car was gone. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. .
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