I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. 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. You may perceive harmony, proportion, rhythm, intensely. Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. Light the lantern. It wasn’t clear to me that I had to explain. .
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