It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. He drew a little breath of relief. There must be ways of getting rid of him. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. 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. She took hand cannon and began to arm it. Charity for the ragtag and the bobtail of the Seven Seas, and none for his own flesh and blood. "Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted.
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