On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. ‘Yes, tell us everything at once,’ instructed Lucilla, pushing him towards the sofa she had vacated, and obliging him to sit beside her. “I love you, Ann Veronica. Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find. All the turnkeys were assembled. 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.
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