“But, forgive me, you are tired. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. “This is mere nonsense, mere tongue-tied fear!” she 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. I cannot go on. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. You're the first widow I ever heard of who could withstand that lure.
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