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“I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. Ruth's arm trembled and her step faltered, but he was too far away in thought to be observant. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. 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. “Oh. All this was exciting and entertaining. "Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue.
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