Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?” Anna smiled. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. 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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