The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. By Jasus! he's about to spake to us. “No, I mean that we should assemble ourselves in case your parents arrive home. 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. "Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity.
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