Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. Save us!" he cried, as his glance accidentally alighted on the drawing, which Winifred had dropped in her agitation. ‘Your niece, ma’am.
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